Fic: Past, Present & Future (8/?)
Past, Present & Future: Chapter Eight
Rating: Explicit
Pairings: John Watson/Marcus Morstan; Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (one-sided)
Beta: lady_t_220
Summary: Sherlock returns after three years to find that things have changed in ways he could never predict. There's a stranger living in 221b and no-one's life is quite the same for it.
*
March 2012
"Yoo-hoo!"
Marcus startles and pulls quickly out of their kiss, turning towards the door, where Mrs. Hudson is looking around at the boxes scattered across the living room. It's not the first interruption of the day - they've already had one (very much unwanted) visit from Mycroft, which came to a very swift end, and one visit from Lestrade.
"We are definitely getting locks on the door," Marcus whispers, before calling out: "Hello, Mrs. Hudson."
John echoes Marcus's greeting and Mrs. Hudson gives them a little wave.
"Hello. Hope I'm not interrupting," she says pleasantly as she steps into the room. "Just wanted to make sure you were getting settled in alright."
"Yes, just about squeezing everything in," Marcus jokes.
"Well, luckily John doesn't have a lot of things. You should have seen it when Sherlock was here - there was mess all over the place, and oh, the experiments!"
John smiles fondly at the memory.
"Anyway, I brought you up some stew," Mrs. Hudson says, gesturing to the tupperware in her hand. "You'll be hungry from all that lifting."
"Thank you," John says, stepping forward to take the tub from her, but she waves him away good-naturedly and potters into the kitchen to set it down on the side. As she puts it down, she looks through to the closed door of the downstairs bedroom and then turns back towards them with a slight frown.
"You're not using the other bedroom?" she asks softly.
"My room's fine," John answers in a slightly strained voice. He'd thought about it - Sherlock's room is bigger - but there's the problem: he still thinks of it as Sherlock's room.
John hasn't been in there for a long time, not since he forced himself to go through Sherlock's belongings and decide what would go to charity, or the tip, and what would go into storage. That is a day best forgotten, filled with grief and frustration and just a little bit too much whiskey to take the edge off. He'd ended up falling asleep on the floor by Sherlock's bed, a random book on forensics under his head and tear tracks etched across his cheeks.
The next day, he'd overseen the army of lackeys Mycroft sent over as they slowly emptied the room, box by box, until there was nothing left but the furniture and a giant pile of Sherlock's case notes. He'd stripped the bed, thrown the bedding in the bin, and then shut the door behind him. It's remained untouched ever since. Even now, he can't bring himself to treat it like any other room.
"Well, anyway, I'd best let you get on," Mrs. Hudson says, pulling John from his daze. "Let me know if you need anything."
"We will do," Marcus assures her, walking her to the door.
"Night then, boys."
They bid her goodnight and she bustles off down the stairs. Marcus moves to stand in front of John, regarding him with concern. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," John says with a weak smile. "Honest."
Marcus doesn't look like he believes it, but he doesn't push. He lays a hand on John's arm and gives it a brief squeeze, and then moves away to unpack one of the boxes. John watches him for a little while, but then shakes off his melancholy and goes to help.
*
John lets himself in to the flat - it still feels weird having locks - and shuts the door behind him. He takes off his jacket and hangs it up on the coatstand. Marcus is nowhere to be seen.
"Marc?" John calls.
He rounds the corner into the kitchen, and his eyes are instantly drawn to the open door of Sherlock's bedroom - old bedroom. He forces himself forward and stops on the threshold.
Marcus is sitting on the edge of the bed, one of Sherlock's notebooks on his lap. He looks up and guilt creeps into his expression.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"
"It's fine."
"It's obviously not - you're standing at parade rest."
As soon as he realises, John shakes it off, takes a deep breath and walks across the room to join Marcus on the end of the bed.
"This is your home too," John gets out. "You're allowed to go in any room you like."
There is a moment of silence and then Marcus gestures to the book in his lap. "I didn't realise what these were," he says, with a wave towards the box it had come from. "I should've asked you - I'm sorry."
"Don't apologise," John says. "Really, don't." He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "It's about time someone treated this room like, well, a room, instead of some kind of... memorial."
Marcus casts his gaze around the room. "It's a nice room."
"And in surprisingly good condition," John says with a smile. "Mainly because it was the only room Sherlock didn't do experiments in. In fact, he didn't spend a lot of time in here at all."
Marcus's arm curves around his waist, but he doesn't say anything and John is glad for the quiet. It's getting easier to remember Sherlock without the memories bringing nothing but pain. He takes the notebook from Marcus and flips idly through the pages.
"Did you get a chance to read this?"
"Not really. I opened it up to see what it was and then spent about five minutes trying to decipher the handwriting."
John laughs and flips back to the first page. He's more than used to Sherlock's scrawl and he skims over the first few lines.
"I remember this. What did I call it on the blog? 'The Blind Banker', that was it."
"Was that the one with the hairpin?"
John stills and turns to Marcus with a slightly surprised look. "You've read my blog."
"Of course," Marcus admits with a crooked smile. "Background research, you know?"
"You did background research on me? When was this?"
"As soon as I knew your name."
John grins. "Stalker."
"Well, the Yard wasn't exactly a great source of unbiased information."
John frowns and Marcus's arm tightens almost imperceptibly around his waist. John fiddles with the notebook in his hands, smoothing his fingers over soft moleskin.
"I have more notes," he says after a short silence. "Things that I didn't get round to writing up. If you want, you could read them."
"I'd like that, but... Are you sure?"
"Yes." John nods decisively. "Anyway, I think my writing's marginally better than Sherlock's."
"What, your messy doctor's scribble?" Marcus teases.
John grins and Marcus gives John's leg a gentle squeeze.
"Let's get dinner on, I'm starving."
*
"John?" Marcus calls from the living room.
"In here."
It seems to take a moment for Marcus to work out where John is, but then he appears on the threshold of Sherlock's bedroom - no, John corrects himself, the other bedroom. It doesn't belong to anyone anymore.
"Alright?" Marcus asks, hovering by the doorway.
"I've been thinking. We- we should use this room. It's bigger... and nicer."
Marcus narrows his eyes at John and moves forward to stand by the bed.
"Our room's fine," Marcus suggests quietly.
"No," John returns, letting out a quick huff of breath. "It's been a year. It's not like he's coming back."
"John, you don't have to do this."
"I do," John insists, reaching out to press his hand to Marcus's hip, calming himself with the simple touch. "I... This is the last thing. It's time to stop keeping this room as a shrine to his memory. It's stupid for us to be all the way upstairs when there's a better bedroom down here."
"Look, why don't you sleep on it?"
"I already have."
Marcus lets out a low hum and his mouth twists into something like a grimace. "Only if you're sure."
"I am," John says firmly.
Marcus doesn't look completely convinced but he doesn't push any further and he leans down to press a kiss to John's lips.
Within the next few days, their belongings slowly migrate downstairs until finally, four days later, they climb into the newly-made bed in their new room.
"It's quieter in here," Marcus murmurs.
"Further from the street."
Marcus shifts closer to press his mouth to John's shoulder. "Love you."
"I love you too," John says, drawing him up into a gentle kiss.
When they part, Marcus sinks back down to mouth at John's neck in a lazy tease. "Ready to christen this bed?"
John laughs softly, but flips Marcus onto his back and kisses him, hands smoothing gently down his side.
They make love slowly, reverently, and afterwards they curl up together. Marcus falls asleep quickly but John stays awake for some time, staring blindly at the ceiling until his eyelids eventually grow heavy and he is pulled down into drowsiness.
John awakens in the middle of the night with a dry throat and wet eyes, and sits up slowly, trying not to wake Marcus. It's the first time he's dreamt about Sherlock - or, more accurately, Sherlock's death - in months, and it's surely no coincidence that he is sleeping in what was once Sherlock's bed. He lets out a long, shaky breath and runs a hand over his face.
"Mpf- wha's wrong?" Marcus murmurs, his voice thick and slurred with sleep.
"Nothing, just a bad dream," John whispers. "Go back to sleep."
Marcus does so, but John is too worked up to join him. He eventually gives up and slides out of bed, making his way through to the dark living room. He sinks into an armchair and rests his forehead against his hand. He's getting better - finally starting to properly come to terms with Sherlock's death - but he sometimes wonders if he will ever be the same as he was. It feels like he's missing a part of himself, and he doesn't think he's ever going to get it back.
John stays up until the early hours of the morning and eventually falls asleep in the chair. He has an uncomfortable twinge in his neck the next morning, but he feels remarkably clear-headed. Marcus says nothing about his nightly movements as they sit down to breakfast, and it is John who breaks the comfortable silence.
"I want to clear Sherlock's name."
Marcus regards him for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on his toast before he speaks up. "What can I do to help?"
John smiles. "I might need some evidence from inside Scotland Yard."
Marcus nods and goes back to his breakfast, and John feels suddenly lighter, happier. He's going to get the truth out there, no matter what it takes.
*
February 2013
The news is everywhere that morning. John sits and watches the BBC News ticker for an embarrassingly long time, wanting to be sure he's not seeing things. But no, there it is again.
'Fake' genius Sherlock Holmes proved innocent.
He sees the same thing splashed over the morning paper, and even hears snippets of conversation along the same lines on the Tube. John suspects this must be Mycroft's influence, but there are certainly enough (begrudgingly-made) statements from Scotland Yard to make it quite likely that their press office is responsible.
John is relieved. It has been a long process, has almost seen both Marcus and Lestrade facing disciplinary action for their involvement, but it was worth it in the end: Sherlock is no longer a criminal in the eyes of the law - or the public. The ironic thing is that the man himself probably wouldn't have given a toss either way, but it was something John needed to do. His friend's name is finally free from the association of fraud, his memory no longer sullied by untruths.
As John treads carefully through the graveyard, he feels like the heavy weight of sorrow has been lifted from his shoulders, and he can remember Sherlock with fondness and affection. He approaches the familiar dark headstone and stops about a foot from it, falling easily into something approximating parade rest. His eyes trace the lines of Sherlock's name, and then drop to the grass around it, which has grown out over the last few months, covering the bottom third of the stone. Two winters come and gone without Sherlock. John can hardly believe how quickly the time has passed.
"A good day today," he murmurs, head bowed. "If you were a ghost, this would be the bit where you go over to the other side. No unfinished business here." John laughs at his own silliness, then falls silent.
He stands there for several more minutes, head bowed and eyes closed, caught up in memories he'd almost forgotten - heads in the fridge and bullet holes in the wall and violins screeching in the middle of the night. It feels like a lifetime ago. He finally raises his head and, with a little nod, turns and weaves his way back towards the gate.
There is a sleek black car waiting for him and John grits his teeth and gets in. He probably should've expected this. Mycroft himself is inside, looking much the same as ever as he signals to the driver to move off. They sit in excruciating silence for a couple of streets, but John is not going to be the first to break.
"I wanted to thank you," Mycroft finally says, although he doesn't even glance in John's direction. John doesn't have to ask what he's talking about.
"I wouldn't've had to clear his name if you hadn't help dirty it in the first place." It is still a sore point, two years after the fact. John looks over at Mycroft, but of course that Holmesian mask remains perfectly blank. Not for the first time, John considers punching him square in the nose to see if that gets a reaction.
There is silence once more and John clenches his hand into a tight fist. "Is that it?"
"Would you like me to make small talk? Perhaps I should ask you about your job at the clinic? Or about Marcus? He's certainly making an impression. I expect he'll be promoted soon."
"I thought I asked you to stop spying on me. And especially to stop spying on Marcus." John takes a steadying breath. "If you hadn't noticed, I have no connection to you anymore, and therefore you have no excuse to keep tabs on me."
"You were my brother's only friend."
"I was. Two years ago. It's not like you to be so sentimental," John says harshly.
Mycroft purses his lips, but doesn't deign to reply and it gives John a rush of satisfaction like only silencing a Holmes can. The car comes to a stop and when John looks out of the window, he sees that they're back at Baker Street.
"Good day, John."
John forces himself not to reply in the manner he wants and climbs out of the car, taking childish pleasure in slamming the door behind him. Mycroft's presence seems to have successfully overridden all the good feeling of the morning.
John climbs the stairs to their flat and finds Marcus half-asleep on the sofa, although he looks up when John comes in. "You look like crap, why aren't you in bed?" John says with a smile.
"I'm going. I just wanted to wait for you to come back." Marcus pushes himself to his feet. "Big day today," he says as he draws level with John.
"Yeah, big enough to warrant a visit from my favourite kidnapper apparently."
Marcus grimaces, and John pulls him in close, pressing their foreheads together. "I'm just glad it's over. I couldn't have done it without you."
"It was the right thing to do."
John smiles and kisses him, before pulling back and squeezing his shoulders. "Now, bed. Before you collapse."
Marcus winds his arms around John's waist and gives him a lascivious grin. "Fancy joining me later for a celebration?"
John laughs and presses another kiss to his lips. "Go and sleep. Doctor's orders."
Marcus extracts himself with a drowsy smile and goes through to their bedroom, shutting the door behind him. John turns the television on and pauses with his hand on the remote control as the headline flashes up on the screen once more.
SHERLOCK HOLMES INNOCENT